


The Kitchen God's Plight

by Leoporidae_Lagomorpha



Category: One Piece
Genre: Alcohol, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blood, Depression, Gen, Introspection, Minor Injuries, Minor Roronoa Zoro/Sanji, Post-Time Skip, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-24
Updated: 2015-01-24
Packaged: 2018-03-08 19:52:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3221342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leoporidae_Lagomorpha/pseuds/Leoporidae_Lagomorpha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When he's cooking, Sanji is a God in his heaven, but nowadays even his haven can't keep the exhaustion away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Kitchen God's Plight

Sanji rules his kitchen with an iron fist. He knows every inch of it by memory, it's his domain, his place, his _raison d'être_ and where he can exercise his craft. He feels useful in his kitchen, doing something only he can do, this is just another part of keeping his friends alive. This is why he loves food, loves sharing this part of himself, all the thought and work that go into making dishes that will make mouths water and bellies swell. It's a connection, a way to prove how much he cares and _God_ he cares for all of them more than he could ever admit. 

\----

Today's lunch is a crayfish bisque with fresh bread and a green salad on the side. Time consuming, but worthwhile. The end result is pure luxury. Sanji can't help, but sit there and admire his handiwork. It's something Zeff used to make on the Baratie, back when he was just a brat busing tables and it tastes like home to him. A soup so rich with crayfish that the whole thing is a warming, welcoming orange, the texture of velvet, and he can taste the seemingly impossible combination of silky cream, buttery crayfish and tangy hot sauce. _Yes, hot sauce._ His own twist on an old favourite, a couple of splashes added a touch of acid and heat to the dish and giving new depth to this staple of his childhood memories. It works fantastically, blending beautifully with all the flavours on his tongue. 

He's been feeling tired lately, worn thin and he'd thought that cooking something familiar might bring some comfort to him. It does in a way, brings back smells he so strongly associates with the kitchen he grew up in, the one he had to fight tooth and nail to claim a place in. He has his own kitchen now, but that doesn't mean he's stopped fighting. He no longer has to fight for a place of his own, but for the people he calls home.

\----

It's not always easy to cater to everyone's tastes, from more refined palates, to Luffy and Zoro's eat anything if it fits, Usopp's pickiness with mushrooms, Franky's dulled sense of taste. He works hard in his galley, works hard to keep everyone happy. Sanji works himself hard coming up with menus and keeping track of rations. He could ask some of the others to help him, but it's his pride as a professional that won't allow it. If there's something he regrets it's perhaps not spending very much time out on the deck, but he doesn't have time to rest, there are still dishes to do and dinner to prepare and if he's lucky he'll be done early.

_He's not, he rarely is._

There's an attack. Marines judging by the sails on their ship, so Sanji tosses his whisk into the sink, throws his apron off and rockets out the door. 

\----

Every battle on the Sunny is pure chaos. A maelstrom of rubber fists, steel blades and flying bodies. Sanji can barely hear himself think. There are three ships in total, these Marines must have a death wish. Shouts echo from every deck, dozens of voices sounding in one great roar, Usopp firing shots in all directions, the crack of broken backs and snapping necks and his own ferocious fiery kicks. 

Through the fog of voices he hears a shriek of alarm, Nami's voice ringing in his ears, he turns towards the sound of her distress, ready to smash some bastard's skull in with the sole of his shoe and it's that brief moment of distraction that allows a stray rockets to blow up in his face. The force of the impact sends him smashing into the mast, body slamming against the thick wood, there's soot in his eyes and blood in his mouth from when he must have bit his tongue. He staggers to his feet, wincing at the pain in his side, he feels like he's just been chewed up, but Nami's alright from what he can see.

So he lets out an internal sigh of relief, mouth twisting into a grin, blood seeping through his teeth, smearing on his lips and dribbling down his chin. He kicks the nearest Marine in the jaw, leans in close to another one and spits red in his face, watches him reel back in disgust and aims a hard heel to the man's stomach, sending his already unbalanced opponent toppling overboard. He doesn't even have to listen for the satisfying smack of his body hitting the waves. He pins another idiot down with a foot to the centre of his chest, brings his other leg down in one precise movement and hears the the sickening crunch breaking bones under his shoe. Three down, what feels like an endless supply to go. 

Sanji squares his shoulders, lights a new cigarette, takes a calming breath and unleashes hell on the men who thought they could ambush the Straw Hats with only three measly ships. 

He doesn't hold back, he doesn't have the patience for fools who want to endanger his crew.

\----

The ship is a wreck, the lawn littered with scorch marks from one of the Navy numbskulls who thought that binging a flame thrower was a bright idea. Sanji made sure to kick him halfway across the Grand Line. 

Luffy's still hyped from the fight, bouncing around the deck wildly, Franky's doing small repairs, Nami's consulting her charts to find the nearest island they can dock at and the swordsman's already asleep. They didn't escape completely unscathed, but everyone seems okay and he's thankful for that saving grace. He's frustrated and feeling rather frazzled because he's two hours late on dinner prep and it's too late to serve a snack lest he ruin their appetites.

_He sets out a tray of mixed nuts on the table anyways._

\----

Dinner is an hour late and that's only adding the inevitable delay of having to throw Luffy out of the galley for trying to eat curry paste. It's a simple dish, penne with chicken and pesto with a sliced tomato and bocconcini salad dressed with olive oil and garnished with basil. The juiciness and fresh bold flavour of the tomatoes are the perfect complement to the hearty mix of pasta, broccoli and potatoes. The food goes fast, disappearing down eager mouths almost as quickly as he can get it out. They're as rowdy as usual and he watches his crew quietly from behind the rim of his wine glass. 

He feels tired and he wants nothing more than to collapse in his hammock, to let himself sink into the embrace of sleep. He wants to, but he won't. There are the dishes from dinner and the forgotten ones from lunch, he has a lot of work to do before he can consider getting to bed. Despite the tender soreness of his ribs, he's got work to do. He can still breathe, it's not as if they're broken so there's no reason he should let it slow him down.

\----

The dishes get done, they always do in the end and it's only once he's seated at the table that he realizes the enormity of the lie he's telling. That he wakes up to everyday, that he repeats like a prayer in his sleep and that he'd uttered not even an hour ago when Nami, gorgeous, cunning, beautiful Nami had asked him if he'd wanted help, he'd said:

"No, it's fine. I'm alright."

It's a lie. Sanji's not alright. His mouth tastes like iron and wine, like the dry blood that's coating the inside of his throat and it shouldn't, it should taste like tomatoes and pesto and it doesn't because he hasn't eaten yet. He didn't even have time to finish lunch. It's been a whole day. The thought makes him feel nauseous and he feels his gut pinch from the long ago trauma of being so horribly starved, but he can't bring himself to eat. 

So he sits at the table and smokes. The nicotine should be soothing, but the smoke that he usually craves more than air tastes like curdled milk, makes him want to gag. One, two, three cigarettes, stubbing them all out in the overflowing ashtray and he's almost halfway through his fourth before he starts to cry. 

Sanji curls around his empty stomach, shoulders heaving, cigarette still burning between his trembling fingers. He cries like he can't anymore, tears running down his face, he cries in deep gasping breaths as if he's drowning in his misery, like the weight of his aching heart is crushing his lungs. He's being swallowed up by the sea and he can't breathe, he can't fight back, he can only be dragged down and cry so uselessly. He feels cold, not a superficial chill, but the kind of hollow cold that radiates from inside somewhere and spreads, makes his limbs go numb and rips him to shreds. 

He's afraid and he's tired. He's tired of fighting, of clawing and biting, of letting his nakama risk their lives. He doesn't want to chase danger, he wants his family to be safe, he wants them to reach their dream and to reach his. He doesn't want to be so horribly afraid of losing them. He doesn't want to think about Thriller Bark, or Marineford, or any of the other instances he wasn't there for them. Every time they got hurt when he could have certainly shouldered the pain. They've all lost in their own ways and he doesn't want to deal with that pain. He doesn't want to lose any of them.

None of them should die for his make believe ocean. He wouldn't be able to live with those scars.

\----

He doesn't know how much time he spends sobbing, just that his cigarette burnt out and all he can do to stop the tears is press the heel of his hands over his puffy red eyes. He doesn't feel any better, in fact he probably feels worse, feels emptier and more pathetic and so disgusting inside. He feels like the sadness clings to his skin like even if he scrubbed himself raw it would still be there, if he even had the energy to try to rid himself of it at all. 

The door to the galley creaks open and he suddenly fills with dread. He can't let anyone see him like this.

"Where's the sa-" The intruder starts.

"Get out." He whispers, hands clutching at his face.

"I'm looking for the sake, shit cook." Zoro says gruffly.

Of course it's Zoro, of all the people on the ship, of course it's _him_. The most insensitive neanderthal of them all. He doesn't want the swordsman here, in his kitchen, not when he's feeling so weak.

"GET OUT!" This time he shouts. He's still hidden behind his hands, perhaps in some vain attempt to save face, but the way his voice cracks on the last syllable already gives him away. 

There's silence, some shuffled steps and then the muffled click of the door being shut. Good, great, at least the big lug knows when to leave things alone. He heaves a sigh, shoulders sagging, he still needs to think of what he'll be making for breakfast tomorrow. 

There's a loud thump and he jumps. He looks between parted fingers to see a bowl sitting on the table in front of him. It's leftover bisque from lunch and a few uneven slices of bread. Zoro's standing over him, arms crossed. 

"Eat." He says. 

Sanji should have known that the shitty moss head could be light on his feet. 

"I'm not hungry." He says and it's a lie, but he says it like a truth, like something he could believe if he tried to.

"You didn't have dinner yet, so eat." 

The fact that he knew, that he'd paid attention, noticed and that he _knew_. Sanji almost burst into tears again. He holds himself back though, stops himself from sinking even lower. Zoro sits down on the bench beside him, obviously not leaving till he takes a bite. So he eats and Zoro watches and the taste makes him think of the Baratie and All Blue and of _home_. 

_He practically licks the plate clean._

When he's done, Zoro takes the dishes away and washes them in the sink. Sanji sits at the table and picks at the skin of his knuckles, tries not to wonder what this means. What this strange behaviour is supposed to convey. 

"If you keep thinking so hard your brain'll probably overheat." Says Zoro's low baritone.

"Who's fault do you think that is?" Sanji shoots back angrily.

"Don't underestimate yourself, cook."

"What?" Where is this coming from? Sanji's still feeling so raw, he can't really process the moss head right now.

"We all need you, but we're still strong. So don't tear yourself apart. That's all." 

"You-" He starts saying, but Zoro's already out the door, bottle of sake in hand. 

Sanji's doesn't get it, but his stomach is full and he doesn't feel quite so awful. He's still tired though and it's already well past midnight, so he decides to put breakfast aside for one night and get some sleep instead. He needs it after all. 

It could just have been his imagination, but he thinks Zoro just tried to comfort him. It's not the worse thing in the world, Sanji thinks as he slips into the men's room, out of his clothes and into his bed. Maybe, just maybe the swordsman isn't a complete utter bastard. It's the last thing he thinks before he drifts off. 

_It's the best he's slept in weeks._

\----

The next morning, Zoro has an extra helping of everything on his plate at breakfas that he simply wolfs down without a word. Luffy eats almost an entire plate of bacon and Nami complements his fruit arrangement. Usopp and Robin help him with the dishes and he spends an hour lazing in the sun on deck.

It's not a bad day, in fact it could be called great.

**Author's Note:**

> I write hurt Sanji as stress relief. Man, I need a nap. I hope you enjoyed. Feel free to comment/review!


End file.
